Hallucinations
by Gift of the Dragons
Summary: What if it was all a dream, a hallucination? Rated M for gory descriptions. One shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Saw or Asinaria.

Author's Note: Rated for a reason! Not for the faint of heart. Read Warning please. **Warning: Contains blood, dead people, gore, someone being shot and various painful torture methods. Do not read if you can't handle it.**

"_Lupus est homo homini."_

Plautus, _Asinaria_

The room became dark, fast. I felt cold all around me, covering me like a blanket. I shivered and pulled out Riptide, hoping the bronze would cut through the darkness. It did, but not enough to aid me. I could only see the blade's glow, not the sword itself. The glow would be _absorbed _by whatever it touched, so nothing could be illuminated. I shivered again and felt something run up to me. I jabbed the sword in front of me, and felt it catch on a monster. The dusty smell of a disintegrated monster wafted through the room, eliciting growls from the monsters that remained. I raised Riptide high, ready to strike.

"Police!" the officer shouted. He kicked the door open, his Smith &Wesson glinting dully in the over head lights. His training as an officer had never prepared him for this. "Oh god," he said, surveying the carnage.

The walls were painted with blood. The room resembled something of a Saw movie after the bloodbath had started. Thick, dark smears of blood were running up and down the walls, resembling the silhouette of a sick rollercoaster track. Light filtered through the bloodied windows, the only light in the room. The coagulated blood gave the windows a gruesome glow, but that was nothing compared to what the windows bared down on.

Bodies. Corpses. Cadavers. None of these words gave the dead justice. They were scattered, grouped together or alone, blood staining their clothes and faces. Some of them had broken bones, others cut open. Most of them were in the chairs, propped up to look like they were sitting in class. Others were limp on the floors, one hanging off a heater. Several students appeared to be sporting Columbian neckties, their tongues dripping blood onto their clothes. The officer gagged at the sight and turned his eyes, only to be greeted with another gruesome sight.

The teacher sat peacefully in his wheelchair. If not for the blood that soaked his body, he would have appeared to be sleeping. There was blood on his face and his shoulders, with small rivulets running down his jacket. He was leaning forward, his head propped up in one hand. Blood smeared his face in a smile. No, that was a _Glasgow smile_. The cuts gave him the odd appearance of smiling; such a grizzly sight once the officer realized how pale the man's skin was. The desk was oddly almost blood free, except for some specks that had stuck themselves to the front, the side that faced the student. The board was equally blood free; in fact, it was entirely blank. Nothing was written upon it at all.

The officer swallowed back the vomit that had threatened to spill out. He couldn't contaminate a crime scene. He lifted his radio to his mouth and had to swallow several times before he could speak.

"We're… we're going to need some paramedics. An ambulance, a coroner. And more officers. This place…. it's a bloodbath." The officer started and dropped his radio. A voice squawked at him, but he ignored it and lifted his Smith & Wesson once more, unable to stop his shaking hands. "Who's there? Come out with your hands up!"

One of the dead began moving, stirring slightly. The officer hesitated, unsure if he should move. The body then stood up shakily, as though unsure of itself. It was covered in blood from the floors and walls, gore sliding down to the floor. It looked the officer in the eye. Whoever it was would be impossible to tell, as the being was drenched in blood. It stepped forward and the officer stepped back. This continued for several minutes until the body draped an arm over a desk. The person pulled something out of one its pockets, a pencil or pen perhaps?

"I think there's a live one. Get the paramedics, now!"

It started rushing forward at the officer and he panicked. He raised his gun and shot at the figure. There was a loud crack and a wisp of smoke rose from the gun's muzzle. The person stopped and shakily lifted a hand, feeling their shoulder. they dropped the pen and fell to their knees, holding their head. They started mumbling to themselves, and the officer lifted his radio once more.

"I need the paramedics. Now."

Sally sat in the hard plastic seat, directed by the doctor. He looked young and old at the same time. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but the lines on his face made him seem decades older. His aged appearance likely stemmed from his occupation, as he worked in an asylum. He smiled at Sally, who returned it with a wan one of her own. The name tag on his lab coat said 'Simon Greene, M.D.'

This meant nothing to Sally; all she was here for was to find out what had happened, what could have gone so wrong. Greene sat across from Sally and clasped his ands in front of him. He looked unsure of himself; this was something that Sally knew was a bad sign.

"We believe your son has schizophrenia," Greene managed to say. Sally fixed him with a hard look, deadly serious. "There is no objective test, nothing that can have the final say on the matter. We have been forced to sedate him for his own safety, and he is currently in his room. It isn't a good idea to see him, as the drugs used to sedate him are wearing off at an exponential rate." The doctor shook his head wearily. "If this behavior lasts for at least six months, then we will know for sure."

Sally shook her head. Greene looked at her warily before noticing she was crying. Tears ran down her face and she silently sobbed. She felt that it had been her own fault; the disorder ran in her family, and she had given it to her son, her only child. Greene stood up and put a hand on Sally's shoulder before leaving. She knew it would have been a thousand times better if it had happened at home rather than at the school.

Less people would have been killed if she never sent Percy to Yancy Academy.

Author's Note: I do not have anything against people that have mental disorders or schizophrenia. This story just came to me at night while I was trying to fall asleep. *shrugs* Better than it coming as a dream.


End file.
